


The Christmas Surprise

by GiggleSnortBangDead



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Christmas, Christmas Mystery??, Christmas Smut, Christmas adventure, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), M/M, Panties, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Service Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21690340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead
Summary: It’s Christmas time, and Aziraphale is wondering why Crowley has been so distracted lately.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 300





	The Christmas Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> ho ho hope you enjoy and happy holidays!

Sometime in November, Crowley became distracted. Aziraphale figured it was about time; they’d never spent so much time together and Crowley was used to a different pace of life than he was afforded with Aziraphale. But it was nice: lounging in bed all morning, eating out each night, picnics and picture shows and really whatever else they could fit in between all of that. 

Aziraphale could have continued that way ad infinitum, but when Crowley started pounding away on his laptop whenever they weren’t pounding away at each other, Aziraphale tried not to feel too put out. Crowley obviously still enjoyed their time together, so there was nothing to worry about. 

Unfortunately, Crowley checked his phone during dinner ( _at the Ritz!_ ), and Aziraphale couldn’t be party to that. 

He cleared his throat delicately. “Darling,” he said once Crowley had stowed his phone away. “I’m thinking about opening the bookshop again. With the holidays almost upon us, it only seems appropriate. You won’t feel too abandoned?” he demurred, feeling deliciously sneaky about the whole thing.

Crowley’s brow dipped, his mouth pulling in confusion. “You never open for the holidays. You call it Renovations Season because you can’t stand the swarms of customers.”

Aziraphale hadn’t expected Crowley would remember that. After all, they didn’t usually see each other around the end of the year: Crowley claiming it was too cold to go out, and Aziraphale wanting to avoid his neighbors who always inevitably had a gift for the kindly Mr. Fell. 

“I might sell a book,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been thinking about it. There’s one or two from which I might be willing to part.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Crowley asked, leaning in, smiling. “Which ones?” 

It really was shameful that Crowley had such an effect on him, and after all this time! Still, Aziraphale heated unbearably, fumbling for his wine glass. He raised it, hoping to hide his positively burning cheeks. “Oh,” he warbled, “I don’t know off the top of my head. It was hypothetical. I’ll have to do inventory, of course.”

“'Course,” Crowley agreed, nodding. Aziraphale would have been very happy to rub him under the table. (They’d done it once, when Crowley had gotten particularly impatient but Aziraphale had a strudel to finish.) But Crowley’s phone buzzed again, and Crowley reached to check it without a pause, tapping a reply quickly. “Sorry,” he said, glancing at him.

Aziraphale smiled, feeling only a pang of disappointment. But it steeled his resolve; opening the shop was just the thing to do.

* * *

By early December, it was clear that opening the bookshop had been an awful idea. Not only had Aziraphale been forced to berate multiple customers to get them to leave the shop before making off with his goods, he’d been unable to stop the sale of his favorite collection of poems by Li Bai. Worst of all, Crowley was even more distant than before. 

When they made love, they stopped before dawn. If it had been for Crowley to sleep, Aziraphale wouldn’t have minded. But it was always so he could leave. That took away any chance of them spending the morning wrapped up in each other. And then if Aziraphale was opening the store, Crowley wouldn’t even pop by to say hello, which was hardly like him. They still spent time together in the evening, sometimes went out in the afternoon, but Crowley’s thoughts were usually elsewhere. 

They were nestled up together in a cosy little cafe, and Aziraphale was enjoying watching the snow and the thought that his body could keep Crowley warm enough that the weather wasn't a bother. But Crowley’s phone pinged (and wasn’t that quickly becoming Aziraphale’s least favorite sound!). Keeping one arm around Aziraphale, he fished his phone out. He swore, earning him a scandalized “Crowley!” 

“Sorry, angel, I gotta head out early.” Crowley began the process of disentangling himself and getting up.

“Is everything okay?” Aziraphale’s heart started hammering in his chest. If something was truly wrong, they ought to go together. That was the best way for Aziraphale to protect him. 

Crowley sighed. “It’s just a small slip up with some business.” 

“But you’re retired!”

“Not that business,” Crowley explained, shrugging on his coat. 

Aziraphale stupidly scrambled for something else. “But—the film?” 

“It’s doing well,” Crowley said. Now he was wrapping a scarf around his neck, putting on his hat. “Be here for weeks.” He leaned down and stole a quick kiss. “Can I give you a ride back to the shop?” 

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale said, his temper seeping in. He was certain he didn’t mean to act this way, although it did make Crowley pause. Instead of sitting back down though, he left Aziraphale on the couch with his hot cocoa. 

Aziraphale walked back to the shop in the snowfall, which felt significantly less beautiful when one was in it alone.

* * *

A couple came into the shop together, more to get out of the flurry than to buy anything. This was ideal as far as Aziraphale was concerned. They were both a little older, but the way they brushed snow off of each other, the way the taller of the two leaned down to kiss her husband’s red nose and cheeks, indicated a newness or a strength of devotion in love, both of which Aziraphale recognized and could relate to. 

After exchanging some pleasantries, Aziraphale asked a cautious: “Is there anything you two are looking for?” 

The couple exchanged a glance and laughed. “No, I believe we’re set,” the wife said.

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale sighed in relief. 

“This one,” the wife continued, leveling a pseudo-accusatory finger at her spouse, “Almost had me thinking he was caught up in the mafia or something nefarious. Sneaking around all the time,” she scolded. He ducked his head, grinning wide. “All this while he was setting up a Christmas surprise for me!” 

“A surprise?” Something struck Aziraphale. 

“We’re taking a trip to New York for the holiday.”

“And we’re going to be there for New Years!” she added, and she squeezed her husband’s arm, too excited to stop herself. “I always wanted to go!” 

“Hm!” Aziraphale said, not listening anymore but trying to be polite. “How nice.” 

The couple puttered about, and, because they weren’t interested in buying anything, Aziraphale made some tea and let them gab about what they were most looking forward to on their vacation.

* * *

He and Crowley hadn’t talked about Christmas. Aziraphale never disliked the holiday, but he’d never really partaken. He’d exchanged gifts with friends, from the gentlemen’s club or other social establishments. That had been the extent of it, and he hadn't done that in decades. 

The pre-Christian traditions he remembered a little more fondly. Obviously, he disapproved of the Saturnalia, but he’d always enjoyed himself. He’d even seen Crowley once or twice, encouraging some of the more tawdry, but largely harmless, behaviors. Yule, too, had involved public feasts and some revelry. Aziraphale simply found it easier to participate when he wasn’t expected to have a family to do it with. 

But now that Crowley and he could spend their days as they liked, they might do the holidays as well. Aziraphale could get a little tree and some lights and two stockings. He could buy sparkling ornaments and a funny angel and demon set and tinsel. On top of the tree, he could put a Father Christmas, with his nice face and rosy cheeks. 

And, of course, he didn’t want to be presumptuous, but if Crowley _was_ getting him a special surprise, he figured he ought to try to do the same. So, while purchasing some various Christmas necessities, he saw a pair of drawers with bows and lace in what might be his size, and he thought that might suffice as a first-time Christmas gift if he couldn’t find something better. 

All he and Crowley had done together had been perfectly tame (excepting the one handjob over strudel, and really the only devious part of that was location). Aziraphale was ready to rectify that, and the panties could assist in their transition. He thought Crowley might enjoy them. They were at the very least, he assured himself as his fingers traced the soft material, worth a laugh. 

The next time Crowley came to the bookshop, which was just a little later that day, he stopped in the doorway. Aziraphale watched him from behind the counter, trying to gauge his reaction.

“I’ve never seen you decorate for Christmas before,” Crowley said. He moseyed over to the tree, scrunching his nose up at Aziraphale having gone with a fake. He straightened out the tree skirt with the toe of his boot, reaching up to inspect the little angel ornament. 

“We hardly ever see each other during the end of the year,” Aziraphale reminded him, still watching carefully. He’d anticipated the reaction to the tree and decided it was worth it because he had no interest in cleaning up nettles. But Crowley was looking at the ornament and the silver tinsel with a smile. 

When his gaze reached the top of the tree, the expression fell. He pointed. “What’s that?” 

“That’s Father Christmas,” Aziraphale told him with a bright, defensive smile.

“I know it’s _Father Christmas_.” Crowley hissed. “What’s he doing up there? Why not a star? Another angel?”

“Oh, well, you know I’m not quite comfortable with the Christian holidays,” Aziraphale said. 

“Angel, it’s called _Christ_ mas—”

“Besides, I think he looks dashing up there. I’ve always like the St. Nick story. I like the idea of Santa Claus. And, anyway, it’s my tree. I’ll choose who gets to be on top, thank you.”

Crowley grumbled, but he didn’t look really cross. He puttered around a little more, checking over the lights around the window and the two, plain stockings hung from one of the bookshelves. He stared at those for a long moment, until it became too embarrassing for Aziraphale and he insisted that they leave for dinner right away.

* * *

Between the appetizer and entree, Crowley and Aziraphale both worked on their second glass of wine. They were at the Italian-Thai fusion place that was “in right now” (Crowley’s words).

Crowley had been quiet, but he had been quiet in general lately, so Aziraphale chattered on about Christmas decorations and the music in the restaurant and the loss of his Li Bai. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, and then he hesitated.

He seemed nervous, so Aziraphale put his glass down. “Yes?”

“What do you think about living together?” Crowley’s ears were turning pink, and Aziraphale could see his eyes scrunching behind his sunglasses. 

Aziraphale blinked. “You and I?”

Crowley groaned. “Yes, you and I, who else would I be talking about?” 

“But…” Aziraphale tried to picture it. “There’s hardly enough space in the bookshop. And I like your flat, but—”

“You don’t like my flat.” Crowley waved him off, absolving him of that.

“I do!” Aziraphale tried to assure him. “I like that it works for you. I like your plants and, er, your—hm, well, I like your bed, I suppose.” Aziraphale couldn’t think of anything else to share that was truthful. 

“I’m not talking about the flat or your shop,” Crowley said before they got too sidetracked. “What if we had a house, with space for the bed and my plants and your books? Is that something you might want to try?” He attempted to ask it casually, but with the tips of his ears now a bright, raw red. Aziraphale nearly choked on nothing, because a thought occurred to him. Maybe Crowley was finding them a home, and that was why he’d been running off so much.

“Yes,” he managed out. Luckily, the waiter was bringing their meals. Crowley exhaled and smiled. 

“I’d like that too,” he said. “Maybe we can talk about that after Christmas?”

That confirmation made Aziraphale squirm in anticipation, and he nodded.

* * *

As mid-December turned into mid-late, Crowley was around even less. Aziraphale contented himself by remembering that he had a surprise coming. He opened up the shop during the day and read, and, if Crowley didn’t visit by sundown, he’d go shopping, trying to find something special to give Crowley in return. 

So far, it had just been more lingerie, to the point that Aziraphale wasn’t sure who he was really buying them for. Certainly he’d worn women’s underthings before (and Crowley was old hat at it). However, the special pieces he’d purchased had all these ribbons and bows and other frills, and it all seemed especially decadent. And the closer he got to the idea of showing them to Crowley, the more desperate he was for Crowley not to laugh when he saw them. 

“Will you stop by tomorrow?” he asked over the phone. Crowley had called to tell him that he’d have to cancel their plans again, which Aziraphale was understanding about because he knew Crowley wanted to make sure everything was perfect before Christmas.

“I’ll pop by in the morning, but I won’t be able to stay long,” Crowley said. “And I can’t come by on Christmas.” He sounded apologetic, but he also didn’t sound like he was paying much attention. 

“But, dear, I’ve gotten you something,” Aziraphale said. “Was that wrong of me?” 

He could hear Crowley smile, which made him breathe a little easier. “Got you something too. I’ll drop it off when I come by if you want, or we could spend the whole day together on the 26th. Do a proper gift exchange. I know I haven’t been around much lately, and there’s something I want to tell you. Nothing bad, but it’s important.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale couldn’t tell if this was part of the Christmas surprise subterfuge or if he genuinely didn’t intend to spend the day. He tried to think of a way to ask, but he took too long and Crowley hung up after saying his goodbyes. “Blast,” he said, and hung his own telephone up.

* * *

Aziraphale laid out his clothes for Christmas Eve, all pieces from his usual wardrobe except a pair of red and green tartan panties which were folded neatly atop the pile. They were cotton, with white lace trim around his hips, and a red satin bow equidistant between his navel and queint. By no means the most vulgar item he’d bought in his unaccompanied shopping sprees, but enough that Crowley would have to take notice, would know they were purchased special, and would hopefully ask to see more. 

He tried to read, but he couldn’t focus. Then he changed into his nightclothes and tried to sleep, but couldn’t calm down. He tried to masturbate, which went well enough. 

(He thought about their home together. He imagined it would be somewhere quiet, not too close to a big city. He’d have a reading room, and Crowley would have a greenroom. They’d have a big garage for the Bentley and Crowley would be able to go into town whenever he needed. Aziraphale would cook, and Crowley would bake, and Aziraphale would keep things clean, and Crowley would keep things tidy. They would make love for days, and they would try out all sorts of things, and they would talk all the time about nothing. He’d wear an apron with frills and lace underneath, and Crowley would wear slippers and a velvet dressing gown and his hair long.)

When he came from a truly deviant fantasy, he felt relaxed enough that he was able to drift off into a light sleep.

* * *

Aziraphale woke up to the sound of the shop bell. He glanced at his clock, seeing that he’d slept much later than he’d intended. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called, and Aziraphale could hear his feet on the stairs up to the little bedroom he kept. He hopped out of bed and stashed the panties under his pile of clothes just as Crowley popped his head in. “Oh, angel, did I wake you up?” He looked helplessly fond. 

“No, dear boy. I shouldn’t have slept so late. If you’ll wait downstairs, I can get myself ready.”

“Sorry, I can’t stay.” Crowley gave him a chaste kiss and smoothed a hand through his bed-wild curls. 

“You’re leaving already?” Aziraphale heard his own needy voice and nearly winced. He cleared his throat. “I thought we might at least do breakfast.” 

“I promise, I’m all yours the 26th. In fact, you won’t be able to get rid of me for at least a week.” He grinned, looking so unfairly attractive (especially when he wouldn’t even be staying to let Aziraphale sit on his perfect face). Crowley reached into his jacket pocket and placed a neatly wrapped present in Aziraphale’s hands. It was clearly a book. “You can open it today or with me. I don’t mind.” He gave Aziraphale another kiss on his shock-slack mouth and turned. “See you soon!”

Aziraphale stared down at the package. He heard the shop bell again, signalling that Crowley was gone. He tore the wrapping off: it was the Li Bai he’d had to part with earlier that month. It was a very thoughtful gift, but not one that would cause Crowley to dash off on dates and leave him alone on Christmas. 

Suddenly angry beyond words, Aziraphale tugged off his nightclothes and threw on his Christmas Eve outfit. By the time he was walking out of the shop, there was a confused cab driver waiting for him. He opened the door and sat with a huff, telling him the address when it became clear he had to.

“Happy Christmas,” the cabbie said after pulling up to the flat in Mayfair. Aziraphale handed him some crumpled bills and a silent blessing because he couldn’t trust his voice. 

He walked into the building, and he knew Crowley was there, so at least there was that. He rode the lift to his floor, stepped down the hallway, and didn’t bother knocking before storming in. 

“Crowley!” he demanded, his voice more on the side of rough than shaking: a small mercy. “We need to—talk.” He choked the last bit. He heard the door slam behind him and then staggered backward, hitting the door. Crowley, for his own part, was frozen in place. 

He was sitting on his living room couch, working his foot into a knee-length black leather boot. From head to toe, he was covered in red velvet and white fur trim. The velvet trousers were so tight, Aziraphale thought they must have been miracled on. The jacket was undone up the front, showing off a tuft of his chest hair, poking up out of a v-neck long-sleeve thermal. His glasses were off but he had the hat on. A Santa hat. Aziraphale thought he might laugh. 

“Crowley,” he wavered, “What’s going on?” 

Crowley finished doing up the laces and stood. The boots were heeled, making him even taller. He didn’t approach, but he put his arms out. “Aziraphale,” he said, some amount of shame working into his voice. “This is me.”

* * *

Aziraphale hadn’t fainted, because he didn’t understand enough at that moment to know he should have fainted. Still, he was a little wobbly, and he allowed Crowley to take his hand and lead him to the couch. They sat. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out. I was going to tell you everything on Thursday.” 

“My dear,” Aziraphale finally said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Do you,” he cringed, “work at the mall?” 

Crowley smiled a little. “No. But the men who do perform a valuable service. They’re my helpers.” He was still holding Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale looked down at their fingers. Crowley’s cuff was the softest, purest white, so he touched it. “Back in the 3rd Century, in Myra—”

“Oh Lord,” Aziraphale swore, closing his eyes.

“—I’d been sent to do a minor temptation, and I came across three girls being sold. People sold their kids back then more often, but they were upset and, you know, kids. So, I left them some money. And in the 3rd Century, there wasn’t much to do, so I might have overdone it with some miracles. From there, it all just grew.”

“I cannot believe you’ve been venerated. Lord Above, Crowley.” 

“You jealous?” Crowley teased. When Azirapahle could only grimace, he slumped a little. “Yeah, well, it’s not something a demon can go around telling people. And because everyone Down There knew who St. Nick really was, I had to morph the story. So, Krampus, Belsnickel, Père Fouettard, Black Peter.” 

“Oh, Crowley, you didn’t.” 

“I didn’t, but I let humans take the story. And they were able to add in worse things than I could. And I was able to,” Crowley shrugged, “Be a part of things. Help some kids. Make people—” He couldn’t say happy, so he waved it off. 

“But, this,” Aziraphale said, gesturing at all the velvet.

“Hell let me branch the character out, so this. And, as Santa, I’m not all bad. Nobody gets killed. It’s just…” Crowley hesitated to say. “Well, I visit rich kids more than poor ones. That was part of the deal.” 

“But now you can do what you want.”

“It was a lot of work to get organized. Can’t just deliver to every kid; not everybody wants to do Christmas.” 

“So, they get nothing?” Aziraphale felt his stomach twist. 

“This year, that was the plan but…” Crowley hesitated. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “We can talk about that in on the 26th.” He made to stand, so Aziraphale yanked his hand and kept him seated. 

“What?” he asked, his heart drumming. 

“I don’t want to do it like this,” Crowley told him. Aziraphale held his gaze until he groaned. “All right.” This time Aziraphale let him pull away. Crowley kneeled in front of him, pressing Aziraphale’s hand between his delicate, long fingers. “Aziraphale,” he said. Aziraphale thought he might discorporate from shock. “Would you be my Mrs. Claus?”

Aziraphale stood sharply. “I need a drink.” 

“Shit, that was supposed to be cooler.” Crowley stood with him. “I had it all planned out. It was going to be funny and—and, well—” Crowley followed him into the kitchen, “It was going to be _good_.”

“Of all the things to say,” Aziraphale snipped, shaking his head as he reached for a snifter and the decanter of malt scotch. He lifted the heavy glass to pour, but his hands trembled so he couldn’t do it. “My nerves are shot.” 

“Here, let me.” Crowley took it from him, and Aziraphale slumped against the counter. “I’m rubbish at blessings. Mass ones, I mean. I can manifest loads of things people want, billions of gifts in one night, but blessings I can’t do. Not like that.” 

“And so you thought you’d bring me in.” Aziraphale accepted the drink and drained half of it. “Don’t see why you would ask me like that.” 

Crowley watched him drink and seemed to swallow with him. “It’s not just—erk, I don’t just want it for that. Or, I mean, I want that part first: the—the part where we’re together. Ugh. This really would have been better after Christmas.” Crowley poured one for himself. 

“What about when we were with Warlock?” Aziraphale asked. “I think I would have noticed if you’d left each December to bring joy around the world.”

“I don’t do it all myself. I told you: I have helpers.” 

“Of course. And now you want me to be your helper too.”

Crowley nearly growled, and that snapped Aziraphale right back into himself. “You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale deflated. “I know. You’ve just caught me quite off guard with this.”

“I know,” Crowley said. “I really do need to go and help everybody get ready.” He took a step toward Aziraphale and then stopped himself, which sent a pain through Aziraphale's chest. It felt worse than anything he'd been exposed to today. “I promise, the moment I’m done, I’ll come back and we’ll talk.” 

Aziraphale put the glass down and straightened the hem of his cream sweater. “Could I come with you? See it all for myself?” 

“Yes!” Crowley practically jumped to his side. “Yes, of course!” he said again, quieter as he tried to contain himself. “Please come with me.” He glanced up at the ceiling and said. “They’ve pulled the car around. Let’s get to the roof.” 

Because on the roof, eight reindeer were harnessed to the Bentley and were waiting on them. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale tugged at his sleeve, although he was certain this was nothing to Crowley. In fact, the reindeer looked at him with familiarity, one letting Crowley pat his muzzle. Another nudged Aziraphale, because animals often wanted to let him know that they were there and could receive his attention. “They’re so beautiful,” Aziraphale mooned, and he touched the soft, thick fur of the darkest one’s head. 

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah, they’re just reindeer,” he postured. “And we’re late,” he told the front two sternly. “So, we’ll have to doubletime it. Aziraphale, get in the car before you get your angelic arse swarmed.” As it was, another reindeer seemed to want under his hand and was ready to be at odds with her colleagues to do so. Aziraphale got in the passenger seat. Crowley checked the rig over once and got in too. 

Leaning out the window once Aziraphale was buckled in, he shouted: “ _On Python, on Kingsnake, on Viper and Cobra! On Taipan, on Mamba, on Tree Snake and Boa!_ ” The reindeer began to move together, forward, then sloping up, and then directly up. “But do you recall,” Crowley sing-songed, winking, “The most famous snake of all?” 

“ _What?_ ” Aziraphale gasped, gripping the door handle as they were pulled into the air behind the team.

“Never mind,” Crowley said. He put his hand on Aziraphale’s knee and gave it a squeeze. “Aziraphale, look at me. We’re just fine, but it’s a long ride, and we’ll be high up the whole time. I don’t want you exhausting yourself this early.” 

Aziraphale slowly unlocked his joints, sitting back and carefully not looking down. “I’ve been higher than this,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I’ve flown higher than this.”

“You don’t have control in my car,” Crowley said, turned almost completely toward him in his seat so Aziraphale would mirror him.

“And so where are we going?” The team had leveled out, and Crowley was turning on the heat. 

“North Pole.” Crowley glanced at him. “I have to look over the fleet, sort out any last minute problems. The elves—”

“ _The elves_.”

“Yes, the elves. They’re pretty self-sufficient, but in the end it’s my operation. Decisions come down to me.” 

“You have an elf workshop,” Aziraphale said slowly. 

“It’s union work, so don’t worry.” 

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale drolled. “And you deliver the toys?” 

Crowley grinned and he wholeheartedly jumped into the logistics of the operation. While he did some deliveries, the elves and helpers did most of it. He created the toys, and the delivery teams were given sacks which tapped into his miracles so it would always have the right gift for the right kid. “Now that every kid is getting one thing they want, I’m expecting this to really offset the global market. The sheer amount of Nintendo Switches we’re giving out this year!” 

They would deliver to any kid who wanted a present (“How do you know?” Aziraphale had asked, but he was reminded that Crowley was a master of wants). They wouldn’t deliver weapons unless the kid passed a background check, and they didn’t deliver live animals unless the home was already equipped to handle the addition. But there weren’t many other restrictions. Crowley was happy to gift explicit CDs to pastors’ children and kush to 18-year-old layabouts. 

“Marijuana!” Aziraphale hissed while Crowley laughed. 

“It’s what he wanted.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale scowled. He didn’t know what to say. “I can see how Hell allowed you to go on with this!” 

“People don’t always want the appropriate thing. That’s okay with me,” Crowley said. “The delivery teams make good choices. I trust them to know when to be nice and when to be—” 

“Don’t say it,” Aziraphale begged.

Crowley grinned. He leaned in, and Aziraphale’s breath caught. The touch of their lips was soft and exceptionally chaste. Aziraphale pressed in, wanting to kiss deeper, his hand sliding up Crowley’s velvet-covered thigh. 

“Better not,” Crowley said. He sounded a little raggedy, which helped Aziraphale feel less embarrassed about his own raggedyness. “We’ll be there soon.”

Aziraphale sat back in his seat, squirming a little, and finally ventured a look out the window. The ground was a vast blanket of white, and the enormity of it made Aziraphale feel dizzy when paired with the high speed. He had his eyes closed and his head pressed against the seat rest when Crowley asked: “Have I told you that I love you?” 

“Hmm.” Aziraphale thought, heat creeping up his neck. “I’m sure you have, but I can’t seem to remember the last time.” 

“I love you,” Crowley said, and he kissed him once, safely and carefully. "I’m glad you came with me.” 

“I love you too, Crowley,” Aziraphale nearly cooed, his whole body having become melty on the inside. “Thank you for bringing me.”

* * *

The elves were not what Aziraphale had been told to expect in any of the elf-related literature he had perused over the years. Being that he couldn’t remember elves actually being created, he had to assume it was more of a title given to those who worked for Santa at the North Pole. 

The setup was nice, modern, and clean: very much Crowley-designed. The Bentley landed on pavement, and the snow from the landing strip to the different buildings had been shoveled away. There were living arrangements on the right, and what must have been the main office and workspace on the right. Between were stables and more cars and reindeer than Aziraphale wanted to count, each preparing for its flight.

Before they got out, Crowley turned to him. “Hey, I may have mentioned you a couple of times to the elves. A few might know your name. It shouldn’t be weird, though.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale wished he had said this sooner, so he could ask follow up questions. “All right.” 

“Mr. Crowley-Claus,” an older man wearing something between a festive green elf costume and a professional three-piece suit said before Crowley had both feet out of the car. “Our first fleet has already shipped. They were disappointed that you couldn’t see them off, but I told anyone who was bothered to switch with a more senior team.” 

“That’s fine, Mr. Barry,” Crowley said. Aziraphale got out of the car, and it wasn’t as cold as he feared it might be. A little nippy, but not too bad. He was giving one of the reindeer, possibly Boa, a pat when someone shouted his name.

“Mr. Aziraphale!” It was shrill, coming from far away, but it startled him nonetheless.

“Mr. Aziraphale?” Mr. Barry choked, just having looked up from his clipboard and noticing him. He nearly tripped over himself to get around the Bentley and to Aziraphale. 

“Shit,” Crowley said.

Mr. Barry took Aziraphale’s hand and started shaking it vigorously. “Let me be the first to welcome you to the North Pole. It is such a pleasure to meet you! If only my father could see me. Me! Meeting The Aziraphale!” Mr. Barry would not let go.

“Oh, um—yes, hello.” 

Mr. Barry barked a laugh. “Sir!” he called over his shoulder to Crowley who was hiding behind the reindeer. “He sounds just like your impression.”

“His impression!” Aziraphale fumed. Mr. Barry laughed again, seeming to be near hysterics. “Crowley, what is he talking about?” More people began to surround him. “Crowley!” Everyone seemed to want to shake his hand and introduce themselves. Aziraphale knew he wasn’t going to remember anyone’s name because he was quickly becoming overwhelmed. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Crowley said, pushing a few elves out of the way to clear a path. “We’ll have a meet-and-greet on literally any other day. We have to keep on schedule.” 

Before the elves were even fully gone, Aziraphale turned to Crowley. “What on earth was that?” 

“I mentioned you _once_ a few decades ago, and everyone just latched on.” Crowley slowly started to lead them toward the main office, slightly away from the crowd who was returning to the stables. “Mr. Barry, Mr. Barry's grandfather I mean, would not give it up. Almost orchestrated a strike for more information. He's the one who came up with the Mrs. Claus figure. Said Ole St. Nick shouldn't be a bachelor.” 

“You have _generations_ of people working for you?” Aziraphale gawped. 

“I told you: it's good union work, so—”

“Crowley, this is a cult.”

“ _No_ ,” Crowley told him, emphatic and exaggerated, although he struggled to come up with a counterargument. “It's more like the mob, really. And I'm the don.”

“That's not better!” 

They stepped into the front office, where a smartly dressed elf receptionist was waiting eagerly for them, practically vibrating out of her chair in excitement. 

Behind the desk were two portraits: one of Crowley, looking very imposing and stern in his Christmas regalia. The other was of Aziraphale, painterly and pastel. He was posed with his head turned away and his eyes downcast, as he slipped a sheer cover up his back. While his nipples weren't exposed (like the artist had argued would be most appropriate), his shoulder was bared in a truly scandalous fashion. 

“My Boucher!” Aziraphale cried, and then rounded on Crowley. “ _You_ took it! I thought it had been lost! Honestly, Crowley, of all my portraits to steal!”

Crowley squawked. “It's the best one!”

“ _I know!_ ”

“Erm, Mr. Crowley-Claus,” the receptionist said. “They're waiting for you on the floor.”

“They're waiting for me on the floor,” Crowley repeated, childishly self-important which was truly impressive as Crowley had never once been a child. He started to move away, as if that had ended the argument. 

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. 

"Ghk," Crowley said, swallowing and stepping out before Aziraphale could throttle him. 

“When he gets back,” Aziraphale told the receptionist hotly. “When I get my hands on him—oh!” He didn't know what he'd do. Probably attempt a tongue-lashing, although he could already feel his will to remain angry slipping. He was mostly glad the portrait hadn't been destroyed. The receptionist could not see this however, and she winced. 

Aziraphale finally took in the plaques under the paintings:

**Anthony Jingle Crowley, The Santa Claus**

**Aziraphale, Best Friend of Santa Claus**

Crowley was such a profound idiot. Aziraphale had no idea how to make sense of any of this.

“Miss—?” he said to the receptionist. 

“Mrs. Jin,” she said, in her staunchly American accent. 

“What exactly has Crowley told you about me?”

She broke into a smile. “That you're his best friend, that you've been around as long as he has, and that you're very noble. He said you might be joining us now that we've expanded the program.” She leaned forward, conspiratorial. “He mentioned recently that he had a love in his life. We all knew it was you, but no one wanted to embarrass him.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, although really all that told him was how open Crowley was with the elves. 

Through a window to the side, they could watch where Crowley had positioned himself in the center of the floor, amidst the workers. He was giving some sort of speech, and Aziraphale could tell he was nervous because he'd helped him practice his presentations for Hell over the past years and knew his hands curled like that when he was worried about slipping up. But, he was also smiling, and everyone seemed properly moved by his words.

“And is anyone forcing you to be here?” Aziraphale checked, startling the receptionist who had been staring closely at his face as if she couldn't believe he was real. “You can tell me,” he stated, which assured she'd be truthful. 

“No,” she said. “I head back to Washington for my leave next week, but honestly I rather just stay here.”

Crowley finished his speech and the delivery teams got into the vehicles and started to fly away. Crowley came back into the office, hands stuffed in pockets Aziraphale was fairly certain had not existed previously. “I’ll give you the painting back,” Crowley grumbled. “I got others I can put up.” 

“Yes, you will give it back.” Aziraphale couldn’t bring much bite to the admonishment. Lowering his voice, he said: “That painting is much too intimate to be displayed like this—in an office!” 

Crowley smiled, now that he knew he was off the hook. “I’ve never heard any complaints.”

“About my Boucher? You wouldn’t.” Aziraphale clasped his hands in front of himself. “So, are we to go door to door, delivering gifts as well?”

Trying and failing to hide his excitement, Crowley glanced at the glass front doors, toward the Bentley and his reindeer team. “We can. It’s hard work, though. Takes a while.” 

“Are you worried I’ll slow you down?” 

“Only if the cookies are fresh out the oven.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale brightened. “Yes, I’d forgotten that was a tradition. Children really leave treats out for you?”

“In some places. I”ll assign us to one of those.”

* * *

This region in the southwest of America seemed particularly interested in snickerdoodles and spice cookies. Aziraphale had expected chocolate chip and sugar (and maybe oatmeal), in lumpy childish circles. He suspected, although he did not complain, that parents had had a hand in making these. 

“Ooh,” he trilled, pressing fingers over his mouth as the spice hit is tongue. “These are crisp.” Crowley had let him wear the hat after he’d expressed feeling somewhat underdressed. “But would it really be too much trouble to lay out something other than milk?” 

Crowley laughed, reaching into his bag. 

“I still can’t believe _this_ is why you learned to stop time.” Aziraphale put the half-eaten cookie down and brushed his hands off. 

“Why not?” Crowley said, reaching in deeper, even though the sack seemed completely empty. “No other way we could get this all done in one night, even with all the elves and helpers.” 

He pulled out a large box and read: “'LOL Surprise! Amazing Surprise.' Honestly, I have no idea what this is.” 

“Are they dolls?” Aziraphale asked, coming over to inspect the box as Crowley rummaged for a bow to put on it. “Oh, Crowley, look, it’s the ultimate unboxing experience. There are 70 surprises inside!” Aziraphale showed him. 

Crowley arched his brow and smacked a red bow on the set. “Shall I get you one?” 

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale shook his head and put the gift under the tree. “Seventy surprises is far too much for me after tonight. Is that all for here?” he asked, interested to see what baked goods were at the next house.

“One more kid,” Crowley said, reaching back in. Quickly he pulled out a tiny plush figure and looked it over. “Huh.” 

“Let me see.” Aziraphale took it from him. The tiny toy had big, glassy eyes and tiny stubby arms and legs. It's giant ears were pointed, and it wore a simple, little robe. “And this is?” 

“That’s Baby Yoda.” 

“Oh, now I know that name. Where do I know that name from?” 

“ _Star Wars_.”

“If you say so.” Aziraphale turned the doll over as Crowley looked for a ribbon. “He’s very sweet looking. Is it a toy for a little boy or girl?” 

“The kid’s sixteen.” Crowley tied a white ribbon around the doll’s neck and put it beside the playset beneath the pine. “Sixteen year olds like weird shit.” 

“I see,” Aziraphale mused, making a note. Crowley took him by the hand and guided him outside, making sure to lock the door. “How long are you normally at this, dear boy?” They walked to the neighbors' house.

“Oh, doing a block like this can take hours,” he said. “Maybe days, if we do the whole neighborhood.” 

“Days!” Aziraphale hadn’t expected that.

“Going to each house takes time,” Crowley told him. “I could have one of the delivery teams take over for us? They’re much faster.”

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale huffed, marching ahead and nearly slipping on an icy bit of pavement. Crowley steadied him, and he tried not to flush too much at the feeling of Crowley’s hands gripping his arms tightly, the press of his hard front against Aziraphale’s soft back. “I want the full experience, and I intend to get it,” he said, once on his own feet again. 

Crowley just grinned, looking more devious than Aziraphale appreciated, and shrugged.

* * *

Aziraphale’s feet ached at the end of it, which didn’t make sense because he was an angel and his feet should have known better. Worse than that, his back was sore. His eyes seemed almost swollen with weariness. He felt absolutely exhausted. 

He had napped in the Bentley all the way back to the North Pole, where Crowley was expected to congratulate the elves and helpers and officially end Christmas Eve by starting time again. Aziraphale was barely able to stand through that, nearly drifting off on his feet. 

The elves and helpers all looked chipper. They had beaten Crowley and him back and were celebrating with drinks and food. It hardly seemed fair. 

“And it’s such a long flight back to London,” Aziraphale murmured, mostly to himself.

Crowley took him by the arm. “I keep a room here,” he could hear him say distantly. They were walking, and then they were in the elevator, and then they were in a flat. Aziraphale had to assume it was Crowley’s, but it was cosy and decorated and all in the spirit of Christmas. 

In the bedroom, Aziraphale took off the hat and then his shoes and sweater. 

“I’ve got it, dove,” Crowley said when Aziraphale tried to fold the sweater, and Aziraphale saw no reason to stop him. 

He unbuttoned his shirt and trousers, trying to tug them both off at the same time and slowing down the process altogether. He threw off his cotton undershirt and collapsed forward onto the bed, burying his head in a pillow and breathing in the smell of fresh linen. 

“Ngk,” Crowley said behind him.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale cracked one eye open, peeking over his shoulder. Crowley was frozen in place, his eyes wide, hooked on Azriaphale’s arse. Aziraphale only then remembered, and heat flooded through him. He didn’t feel on the verge of sleep anymore. “Oh,” he croaked out. “Happy Christmas?” 

Crowley’s eyes darted to his face and then back to the panties, which had ridden up some and were now digging in a little higher on his bum. He still didn’t say anything.

Aziraphale pushed himself up. “You don’t like them.” He considered grabbing his things and hiding out in the Bentley or maybe in the stables, with Boa. 

“No,” Crowley said, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat and then restated a very low, overly masculine: “No.” He put Aziraphale’s unfolded trousers aside. “You—wore those for me?” 

“Yes. I thought you might—oh, it’s so silly now, I see that. It was supposed to be a gift. But of course, I didn’t know if you’d like it. Say you like it please. If you do, I mean.” 

“I like it,” Crowley said, and he sat on the bed behind him. “How tired are you?” he asked.

“Terribly,” Aziraphale said. Crowley was tugging off his leather boots. “You’ll have to do most of the work.” 

“That’s not exactly new,” Crowley snorted.

Panic flared through Aziraphale. “Just last week, I was on top! Last Tuesday! Don’t you remember?” 

“Yes, of course,” Crowley said, climbing next to him. “I was just teasing. And even if I wasn’t, I like doing the work. Haven’t you noticed?” 

He kneeled at Aziraphale’s rear, spreading his legs and pressing a kiss to the back of one of his thighs, and then the other. Crowley moved in, and Aziraphale could feel his hot breath but couldn’t really process it until he was mouthing over his pussy through the soft cotton material of the panties. Groaning, Aziraphale collapsed forward against the pillows, pressing his hips back and his cunt against Crowley’s mouth. 

“I can taste you, even through them,” Crowley said between kisses. And he seemed more than content to continue, lapping at him that way, his fingers digging into chubby thighs and his tongue pressing the panties against the contours of Aziraphale's chubby twat. Aziraphale clutched the pillow and muffled any moans there, stifling any requests for Crowley to go deeper, because they’d only just started and there was no reason to be so undone so soon.

Still, Crowley pulled up. His hands skated over the white lace. “Flip over. Let me see the front of my gift.” 

The embarrassment over the whole endeavour wouldn’t shake, but Aziraphale got on his back. “This must seem ridiculous to you.” Aziraphale shook as Crowley tugged at the sewn-on little red bow. “Considering everything.” 

“I have no idea what you mean,” Crowley said, still mostly just looking and playing with the frills, his yellow eyes almost eaten up by black pupils. “Not when you’re being so pretty for me.” 

Aziraphale parted his knees a little. “Do you think so?” he asked, biting his lower lip in case he said anything more untoward. 

“ _Yeah_.”

He had to try and not preen terribly at the sound of Crowley so moved. Crowley ducked his head again, laving attention over his covered clitoris. Aziraphale choked on a gasp, his legs jerking. Crowley hitched his thighs up, finally sneaking under the cotton material, pushing them aside just enough to run his tongue over Aziraphale’s sopping wet hole and start to fuck in. 

“Oh, goodness,” Aziraphale pressed on trembling hand over his mouth, tossing his head back. He closed his eyes and focused on not crushing his legs around Crowley’s head, which he was sure no one would enjoy. Still, as Crowley sucked him over the edge, it was a struggle, his voice crying out and his knees jolting along with his stomach and his heart. 

It usually didn’t take Aziraphale long to come. (He still wasn’t certain how long it was supposed to take.) Crowley pulled back, his mouth a little less slick than usual. He straightened the wasted and wet panties with a smile, as sweet as a spring day and twice as cool. 

Aziraphale kept his legs akimbo, wriggling his hips forward. “Darling, you can go in, if you like. I don’t mind. I mean, I’d like it.” His eyes trained down to the front of Crowley’s tight, velvet trousers, to the stiff bulge in the front. It obviously needed tending, and it must have ached. And Aziraphale, himself, still ached as well. 

But Crowley flopped back onto the bed. He faked a yawn, patting over his mouth. “I’m so tired,” he said. “Can’t do anything.” 

Perhaps on another night, Aziraphale would have turned over out of spite and let him ache. He might have played with himself until Crowley relented and took his cock out. But Azirapahle wanted so viciously that night, he didn’t think it right to waste any time on the game. 

He rose up on his knees. He still told his lover in simple terms that he was a terrible nuisance and a true menace, but he started to work the panties off.

“No,” Crowley said, with quite a bit of energy. “Leave them on.”

“Crowley, I hope you know what I mean to do with you.” Aziraphale sighed. “I can’t have things in the way.” 

“Just push ‘em to the side.” Like Crowley had done with his mouth. Aziraphale heated all anew.

“Well,” he sputtered. “You have to keep the suit on!” He reached for a clasp or a zip to free up access to Crowley’s cock, but couldn’t find one. “And you’ll have to take your prick out, because I’m not sure how you got it in to begin with.” Crowley laughed, and he managed to get the front worked down enough so Azirpahale could get a handful and then some, the promise of which made him shudder in relief. 

Aziraphale then promptly turned, letting go of Crowley’s cock and facing his knees.

“Ah, come on,” Crowley groused. Aziraphale just lifted his hips up and reached behind himself with one hand, tugging his soaked panties to the side with the other. Sinking down onto Crowley’s cock felt almost as good as pulling himself up on it. 

He set an self-indulgent pace, using Crowley’s prick to rub at his inner walls, slowly, minutely. He bat Crowley’s hand away when he tried to grasp his hip. “I—ah—” he panted. “Wouldn’t want you tiring yourself, my dear.” He braced himself on Crowley’s velvety leg, which felt warm and delicately woven under him. When he started to rub his own clit, he leaned backward, fucking himself a little faster, clenching down around the cock while Crowley hissed in agony.

“Angel,” he begged, “Come on.” 

“Oh, I’m coming,” Aziraphale assured him, shivering at his proximity to that moment. “Ohh— _oh_!” he squeaked. Crowley, fast as a flash, had pulled out and put Aziraphale on his side. Aziraphale’s chest was heaving but he tentatively guided his leg up, watching Crowley over his shoulder. Crowley tugged his panties to the side, and there was a ripping sound with caused Aziraphale to cry out, either in anguish at the loss or arousal at being entered again. 

Crowley held his leg up by the thigh, spread in the air, pumping into him from behind, breath steaming against his ear. Aziraphale wouldn’t have thought it possible for Crowley to pound into him at that angle, but Crowley did like to accomplish the impossible. As it was, Aziraphale couldn’t even appreciate the nature of the feat because he couldn’t string a real thought together, his mouth open and a litany of punched out cries falling free.

Crowley then pulled out and shimmied down. Aziraphale’s leg was still suspended in the air, although holding it aloft now became Aziraphale’s role. Stretching the panty’s seams even more, Crowley buried his face in his cunt, tonguing at his clit to send him over the edge he’d been teetering on. Aziraphale nearly dropped his leg. He could feel his pussy pulsing, and Crowley worked in a finger for him to vice around while he squirmed without breath or voice. 

There was maybe one second between Aziraphale coming and Crowley returning to his spot at his back, slipping inside again. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Crowley ground out. “You’re so wet, you’re so—” and Aziraphale just held on, his quim starting to feel hypersensitive. Their hands locked so they could hold his shaking thigh up together, and Aziraphale was struck with a love so intense he keened and sobbed and beared down. Crowley stopped talking and pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s shoulder, slamming into his cunt, whining like he felt the wave of love too.

The position must have no longer been right, because Crowley pulled out once more, just as abruptly as the time before, and hitched Aziraphale onto his stomach and up on his knees, his face down in the pillows. 

He finally tore the panties off, his hands spreading Aziraphale’s labia, his tongue slipping between his thumbs while Aziraphale kicked his feet and shook his head. “It’s too much,” he moaned, Crowley’s lips pulling on his clit and then kissing his pounded-hot hole. Aziraphale was quaking all over, close to tears, and Crowley didn’t stop until he was shuddering, nearly crying, unable to take a full breath as Crowley ate him through tremor after tremor. 

Crowley helped Aziraphale onto his back after that, taking himself in hand, clearly planning to finish on Aziraphale’s stomach. Aziraphale silently bent his legs open, heaving but wiggling closer. 

When Crowley pushed in this time, he did it carefully, which was the only way Aziraphale could have accepted because he felt raw and exposed and weepy. Crowley had his arms around Aziraphale, and he was kissing his cheeks and nose and mouth, all while Aziraphale moaned at how it felt. Gathered up in his arms like that, Aziraphale was content to be rocked into. 

“My drawers are ruined,” Aziraphale realized, and Crowley laughed against him.

“Good,” he said, still gently fucking him. 

“Good?” Aziraphale hummed. “But you like them.” 

“I liked them on you,” Crowley panted. “They were tacky, though.” 

“What?” Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley groaned. “Oh, do that again. You clench up when you—when you’re—”

“They were not tacky,” Aziraphale told him, although Crowley was pushing in deeper than before, which made his voice stickier.

“I’ll buy you more knickers,” Crowley promised, lips pressed against Aziraphale’s ear. “Nicer ones. And I’ll rip those off of you too.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “You wasteful fiend.” There was no fire in it, but Crowley groaned anyway, his hips snapping erratically and then flush against him as he spilled. Aziraphale let the foul and awful creature kiss him, light and sweet, sharing breath while Crowley softened and then slipped out. Crowley shuffled down again, tongue already lolled to eat the come out of him. 

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale stated. “Get a cloth.” 

Crowley reached off the bed and grabbed the miraculously dry but still shredded panties and wiped him with that. Aziraphale pouted, but Crowley got them under the covers and huddled against him, so it was all right. 

“Have you made up your mind?” Crowley asked before Aziraphale could drift off. "About helping?" 

“I think so, but I’d rather not have to walk up and down a whole neighborhood like that again.” 

Crowley smiled. “Most of our delivery is done from afar. The elves just have to be in the right area to make sure the toys end up where they need to be.” 

“So you mean,” Aziraphale closed his eyes, “That we broke into all those houses and did all of that work and it was completely unnecessary.”

“I thought you wanted the door to door experience,” Crowley said, not even pretending to be guilty. “I usually stop into a house or two every year, just for fun.” 

“Remind me to be cross with you when I can move,” Aziraphale said. 

“Okay,” he said, snuggling up close. “Can I take off the suit now?” 

“I would imagine _The Santa Claus_ can do whatever he likes.” 

“Ugh,” Crowley groaned, sounding delighted. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Pardon me. Father Christmas.” 

“Definitely not that either.” 

“What should I call you then?” Azirapahle peeked at him.

“Just Crowley,” he said. 

Aziraphale hummed. “Crowley it is.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Claus,” Crowley whispered. 

“ _Crowley_.” 

“All right, all right. Goodnight, Aziraphale.” And Aziraphale was already asleep.

* * *

Christmas morning, Aziraphale woke up with Crowley pressed against his chest and his thin, freckled arms stuck between them. Aziraphale had no idea when Crowley had taken off the suit, and he cinched the blanket up over their shoulders just in case he was cold. He wasn't sure how he could stand being in the arctic like this. 

Crowley stirred at the movement, shifting closer. “I’m still asleep,” he explained. Aziraphale kissed him, on his forehead, on the top of his head, and then started to extract himself. “No,” Crowley said, grabbing for him to keep him close. 

“I'm sorry dear, but I'm not asleep.”

“You know, it's polite to take a moment to wake up. Humans do it.” Crowley slit an eye open at him. 

“Poor thing,” Aziraphale cooed.

“You don't mean it. You're smiling.”

Aziraphale laughed at him to say he was right. “Are you getting up?” he asked. Crowley just huffed and turned over, pulling the blanket up around his ears so only his hair was sticking out.

The flat, which Aziraphale busied himself exploring after he'd showered and found a dressing gown, was much larger than it should have been. It looked nothing like Crowley's flat in Mayfair, outside of some darker, modern design touches and gaudy flourishes here and there. Really, it was more like a little house, with two floors. There was a kitchen and living space on the first. On the second was an office and modest library (mostly full of books on Christmas; Crowley would have needed to be up on the literature, after all). It was a nice space, although it seemed a bit excessive for Crowley on his own. 

In the kitchen, he put the kettle on and found some loose leaf tea in one of the cabinets. There was a little bit of milk in the fridge and sugar in a bowl on the counter. Aziraphale sat and waited for the water, taking it all in. It was so very homey. 

“I think I got some biscuits somewhere,” Crowley said, sleep rough and rumpled. He’d pulled on his velvet trousers and nothing else, flicking the Keurig on without opening his eyes.

“Good morning!” Aziraphale piped. Crowley joined him at the table, gave him a kiss, and sat down. “I saw some eggs in the fridge, and some ham. I could make us breakfast.”

“You don’t gotta make breakfast,” Crowley said, resting his heavy head on his hand, looking all dopey and sleepy as he watched Aziraphale. He had pillow marks on one cheek. Aziraphale loved him so much he wanted to explode. 

The kettle started to scream, and Aziraphale popped up. “I don’t mind cooking.” 

“We should go back to bed,” Crowley said. “No one expects to see us until later.” 

“We’re expected?” Aziraphale got the eggs and ham out anyway, getting them started while the tea steeped. 

“Of course, angel,” Crowley said. “It’s Christmas.” He got up to grab his coffee and stand by the counter while Aziraphale fried the eggs. The trousers, somehow, were slipping down his hips enough in the front that Aziraphale couldn’t help but eye the trail of red hair which went lower and lower, thickening out and then disappearing. “The elves and helpers put on a whole thing. Very Pagan. There’s a feast and dancing and games. You’d love it.”

“I do love a feast,” Aziraphale admitted. He put Crowley in charge of the eggs and ham and returned to his tea. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to go, if we’re expected.” 

They ate breakfast (or Aziraphale ate and Crowley drank more coffee and nibbled and snuck food onto Aziraphale’s plate), and then Crowley coaxed him back to bed. 

“I’ve missed you,” Crowley said, against his throat. Aziraphale was holding him to his chest, and they weren’t doing anything yet. “You’ve been so patient.” 

“I thought you were getting me a Christmas surprise. I wasn’t expecting it to be so surprising though.” 

Crowley grinned, pushing up over him. “What did you think it was?” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale shrugged weakly. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Come on,” Crowley nudged. “Maybe I’ll get it for you next year.” 

Aziraphale hesitated, and then said: “Do you remember when you asked if I might like to… to live with you? In the same space?” Crowley’s smile softened, and Aziraphale tightened his mouth quickly. “I know that’s not why you asked.” 

“It might have been part of why I asked,” Crowley admitted. “Because it might be nice to stay here a while, so we can get started on next Christmas.” 

“Here?” Aziraphale repeated, dumbstruck. 

Crowley’s face fell. “Do you not like it here?” 

“No, I love it. But—but won’t it be much too cold for you to live here?” 

“You’ll keep me warm, won’t you?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale didn’t need to answer because Crowley was already leaning against him, wrapping himself around Aziraphale’s body, grinding into his heat. 

“Oh, well.” Aziraphale swallowed. “When you, ah, put it like that.” 

“Oh, yes,” Crowley said, pressing against the give of his thigh. “I’ll put it any way you like.” 

That evening, they’d go to the feast, and Aziraphale would meet the different workers. He’d sit beside Crowley and feel very much a part of things in a new and exciting way. That night, they’d make love. Aziraphale would call Crowley “Mr. Claus” at least once to see if he like it. The next day, they’d wake up still together, and together they’d return to London to collect and move their different things. Then they’d do it all again, together and together and together. 

Right then, Crowley was kissing his neck and groping his chest. “Crowley,” Aziraphale said, gripping his shoulders. Crowley hummed. “Darling?”

“Hmn.”

“Happy Christmas, Crowley,” he breathed.

Crowley pulled up, eyes hazy, mouth red, and cheeks flushed. “Yes,” he said, very much drunk on it. “Happy Christmas.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be just some Christmas porn but it turned into a very earnest exploration of this universe's santa mechanics! who could have guessed this? (i should have) also S/O to [shabnam_e_maghz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shabnam_e_maghz/pseuds/shabnam_e_maghz) for the alternative title to this fic, "Pounded in the Pussy by the Spirit of Christmas"
> 
> ALSO THERE IS [FANART](https://twitter.com/Greygoldbones/status/1208475233444696069/photo/1) NOW BY MY GOOD BUDDY [graygoldbones](https://twitter.com/Greygoldbones)
> 
> i really hope you guys like it and had fun! please comment because i need attention


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